Castle Station hung in a geosynchronous orbit one hundred and twenty miles above the only Hive on Nova Iberia. The station was still manned by the men of Iberian Customs and Excise, but they had been disarmed, and many offices now hosted adepts of the Inquisition who wandered the halls confident in the invulnerability of their office. Rear-Admiral Said now held the dubious honour of being the most senior ranked Officer in the Iberian PDF, his colleagues planetside having been taken or killed by the Inquisition thanks to their noble heritage. Said did not mourn their loss, there was a reason he had spent the majority of his career in space, and he had far too much faith in the Inquisition to doubt their judgement. All he could do was keep his staff focused on their task, keep Customs running even without anyone left alive to report to. His office aboard Castle station was a fine, wood-panelled affair, done up in dark blue and red, the same colours as his uniform. The Station Chief the Inquisition had sent over had been offered this office, but thankfully he had declined, instead taking over a wing on the edge of the station with its own private dock. It was not Admiral Said’s business to know what was going on within this section of the station, but he would have to be a fool not to notice that there had been a far larger number of shuttles going in and out of that section as of late. Whatever it was they were doing, Said hoped it would not put his men in danger.

Behind bulkheads and carapace-armoured sentries, the Inquisition was preparing for war. Shuttles had been flying in Stormtroopers a squad at a time, transferring a thousand men from the Silent Observer to Castle Station. The ship itself was on the other side of the planet supporting an aerial assault on the holdings of a major noble family. That attack was entirely diversionary, a titanic ruse involving two full battalions of Stormtroopers and an entire division from the PDF. The real matter, as far as the Inquisitor was concerned, was only about to begin. For weeks the battalion aboard Castle station had been practicing in great plywood mock-ups constructed inside one of their hangers. There they would drop from the rafters before activating their grav-chutes and bursting through an illusory window. The majority of these men were drawn from the Stormtrooper drafts of the Schola Progenium, and had years if experience with grav-chutes. The former Tallarn Guardsmen were having a harder time mastering the strange contraptions, and had been bouncing off the walls as they got used to the arcane devices. Fortunately, only two men had failed so badly as to break their legs, and the battalion as a whole was ready.

Lieutenant-Colonel Coriolanus stood before his battalion, dressed in the same dark grey carapace armour as them. Their usual dark-red fatigues had been replaced by a pitch-black vac-suit that pinched uncomfortably around the seals and weighed the men down. They had been wearing their suits almost non-stop since transferring to Castle, and the men had grown used to moving with the extra weight. Now they stood in their eight-man sections, grouped in platoons and companies, in the great hanger, waiting for the appointed hour. The men approached their duty with a professional detachment and Colonel Coriolanus knew there was nothing to be gained in giving them the sort of grandiose speeches that were so popular amongst Imperial commanders. These men worked better using their own skill, rather than relying on fanaticism, and their last minutes in orbit would be better spent checking the seals on each other’s suits than standing around listening to a speech. To that end, Coriolanus moved off to his adjutant who checked over his seals, ensuring his grav-chute would not burn through the vac-suit and checking the fitting of the communications equipment on his back. Across the hanger, eight hundred and forty men did the same, waiting for the colossal doors to open, and their bloody work to begin.

As the Colonel’s Chronograph read 06:15 Local, the great hanger doors were opened, and the last wisps of air shot out of the depressurised hanger, turning into frozen flecks of dust in the coldness of space. Eight hundred and forty men walked on magnetised boots out of the hanger doors before stepping down onto the very wall of the station itself. The planet filled their view, and they could see the ugly metal shape of Hive Castle laid large before them, hundreds of kilometres of urban spread in a near perfect circle, save for a jagged edge where the city met the sea. The stormtroopers walked on until they reached the edge and their perspective shifted again, the planet becoming the sky as they moved across the station’s underside and the rising sun sitting directly in front of them. The men spread out evenly across the base of the station, navigating around irregular communication spires and kilometres of ductwork. Lieutenant-Colonel Coriolanus moved himself to the small bubble that marked the control room of Iberian Customs and operations. He looked in through their great glass observation windows and saw an upside-down congregation of Inquisitorial personnel looking back at him. Their leader, an adept of the Mechanicus, gave a brief signal and the stormtroopers gripped on to whatever surfaces they could as the stations titanic thrusters flickered into life, shifting the position of the station by a few kilometres.

When the Chronometer read 06:47 a signal was given and the stormtroopers leapt off as one, pushing off with their legs before increasing speed with their grav-chutes. Eight hundred and forty men moved in sync with each other, following a pre-planned route in their heads-up-display that would see them through the atmosphere without burning up. Coriolanus flew almost at the front as the planet raced up to meet them. With a subtle shift of his grav-chute he turned, and watched his battalion move further and further away from the space station, until it was a miniscule speck bathed in the light of the rising sun.

In the great courtyard of the Imperial Courts of Justice sat a Thunderhawk Gunship, the only aircraft of its kind on the planet. The great gunship was immensely sized, being designed for exclusive use by the Astartes, and was laden with the iconography of the Inquisition. Its exterior was painted black, and trimmed with flashes of red and gold. In spite of this opulent exterior, the inside of the gunship was largely unadorned, simple metal seats of grey metal lining the walls with another row partially filling the centre. Amelia sat near the back of the ship, accompanied by Corporal Al’Said and sandwiched amongst a group of Sisters of Battle. Al’Said was cradling a large melta gun with an almost spiritual reverence and his hellgun was slung across his back. Closer to the front of the aircraft sat the Inquisitor himself, still dressed in his power armour, accompanied by five crusaders and his penitent witch, her long chain emerging from the robes of one of the crusaders. Interspersed throughout the hold were the varied acolytes of the Inquisitor’s retinue; men and women from all walks of life they sat with one or two of their own agents cradling an unusual collection of exotic weapons.

The atmosphere in the gunship was one of hushed anticipation. The Inquisition naturally attracted thrill seekers and the agents of Inquisitor Heydrax had spent far too much time on this world limiting their actions within the constraints of local law, tiptoeing around close allies of the Governor and limiting their efforts against the structures of this world. Naturally, there were good reasons for this: The Inquisitor’s forces were too small to deal with an outright civil war, and the drop in production that a total restructuring would entail were anathema to the Administratum, and to industries across the sector that depended on Iberian steel. The adepts were well aware of necessity, but the irrational heart of their humanity cried out for action, to demonstrate the true power of the Inquisition to all the petty lordlings of this world. As the Thunderhawk’s engines spooled up for take-off the hold was filled with an expectant silence, the calm before the storm.

The gunship rose from the courtyard, scattering imported dirt from the ornamental gardens and driving the teeming commuters to clutch their ears in agony at its titanic noise. The Governor’s palatial complex stood over three kilometres tall, and its tallest tower scraped the edge of space, the uppermost point of the hive. Though the public access was located on the same level as the courts the gunship shunned this entrance, instead leaving the hive entirely to approach one of the uppermost landing points, usually reserved for the Governor himself. At this height the atmosphere was thin, and the hanger lay behind a thick void shield that would turn intangible upon receipt of a lengthy code. The Inquisitor did not have this code, but his rosette contained inbuilt systems that rendered any lock build to Imperial standards utterly obsolete. With a single burst of code from the gunship, the void shield flickered and turned translucent allowing the gunship to slip in, parking its colossal bulk between rows of ornate vehicles.

Light filled the hold as the gunships ramp dropped and two squads of stormtroopers rushed out the door before veering left and right to form a wide circle around the gunship. Next to leave was the Inquisitor, his black armour gleaming suddenly as he stepped into the light, followed by his crusaders and the bound psyker. His entourage followed, Amelia amongst them, and they began to march towards the ornate metal bulkhead that separated the hanger from the rest of the palace. They were an awesome sight; a long column of adepts arrayed behind the Inquisitor, a mismatched group with some dressed in finery that rivalled the court of any governor, others dressed in muted bodygloves and armoured fatigues whilst the rest presented a front of humility in plain robes. They were all flanked by two long lines of Sisters of Battle, whose uniform red armour and ornate bolters were laden with engravings, devotional marks and purity seals.

The bulkhead raised itself suddenly and a company of Household Guards rushed out. All male, these soldiers were dressed in dark green jackets and white breeches with a silver-plated helmet and cuirass bearing the governors crest engraved in gold. They carried ornate lasguns, whose long barrels ended with a wicked axe-head, save for the four officers of the company, who carried chainswords whose polished teeth glistened in the light of the hanger. Shortly behind these men waddled a portly fellow, who wore the ornate but impractical uniform of a household servant, done up in the same colours as the guards. The soldiers seemed afraid to raise their weapons to the Inquisition and instead gathered in a disorderly huddle around the door that quite ruined the effect of their magnificent uniforms. The servant tentatively stepped ahead of this body of men, pausing when it became clear that the Inquisitor was not going to stop moving forward. He shouted across the hanger to the rapidly advancing Inquisitor.

‘Honoured Inquisitor Heydrax, we have no record of any appointments with you.’

The man’s voice was thin and reedy, partly because of his efforts to make a shout polite but also because of his own inherent weakness.

‘I am an Inquisitor. My office draws its authority from Malcador the Hero, who stood at the Emperor’s right hand. Are you suggesting that I must bend myself to the whims of some lowly governor?’

The Inquisitor spoke softly, yet his voice carried across the length of the room.

‘No, my lord!’ The servant stammered with more than a hint of desperation. ‘Might I inquire as to the reason for your visit? I am afraid the governor is indisp…’

‘The Governor is receiving the services of a Rejuvenat Adept to unnaturally extend his life. The process is long, and he isn’t going anywhere. Far from being indisposed, he is in the perfect state for a long talk. Now stand aside.’

The servant sputtered with indignation, the only reaction his courage would allow, but stepped aside and motioned for the Guards to do the same. These men were all too happy to comply.

The Inquisitor and his retinue moved throughout the halls of the Governor’s palace, passing a great indoor lake lit by an artificial sky, the opulent chambers decorated with silks and pillows where the Governor’s harem dwelled, great halls for banquets or balls and seemingly endless corridors which bore a broad red carpet down the middle for important persons whilst servants moved along the marble flooring on either side. The acolytes, naturally, moved along the red carpeted floor regardless of their station, and the few dignitaries they encountered flung themselves to the walls in their hurry to clear the path. It was impossible for the Inquisitor’s entrance to go unnoticed but this was not the first time he had dropped in unannounced; the Inquisitor made regular trips to the palace to demand the cooperation of the Governor in certain concessions, a delicate ruse made to disguise the true purpose of this final visit.

Eventually the great hallways were replaced by comparatively smaller collections of rooms as the acolytes crossed the dividing line between the Governor’s public rooms and his personal chambers, where only his inner circle were allowed. They found him there, near the top of the spire, in a great chamber with one wall on the spire’s exterior. He lay upon an ornate four poster bed that looked out of the vast window towards the bay dozens of kilometres below. The governor was four hundred years old, but had the appearance of a man in his mid-fifties and his bare chest showed discrete musculature. The reason for this false youth stood beside him; a woman in a long coat of white latex bordered by a gold design that swirled across the coat’s lower half, forming the image of a graceful unicorn. Her hands were hidden behind bronze gloves that ended in a wicked array of needles on her fingertips whilst a bronze covering kept her hair hidden and supported an array of lenses over her right eye. Her face was the picture of artificial beauty, her youthful appearance serving as an advertisement for the strength of the chemicals she had laid out beside the governor in an ornate carrying case.

The chemicals were adjusting the governor’s body on a cellular level and had rendered him weak and sluggish, nonetheless he was still a dangerous beast. Though he bore no visible weaponry, his hands were laden with rings that could easily conceal a Joakero made digi-weapon, the discreet minstrels gallery that looked into the room was filled with guards who also stood at attention around the walls and there was a man near the bed dressed as a servant whose mind seemed somewhat artificial to Amelia. With great effort, the governor rose to a seated position and turned to the face the Inquisitor, whose retinue had discretely spread out across the vast room.

‘Inquisitor Heydrax, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? I assume it is a matter of some urgency, for you to interrupt me whilst I am receiving treatment.’

Amelia could no longer see the exchange, once again her height had become her enemy, but she could tell that the Governor was hiding daggers behind his language. The Inquisitor infuriated him, a thought which brought an unprofessional grin to her face. Fortunately, she was standing behind a particularly tall tech-priest and no one would notice.

‘As a matter of fact, Governor Mazus, I have come to inquire after your wife.’

The Governor laughed, a short, sharp and blatantly artificial thing, before continuing.

‘Lysette is fine, though her bones are giving her trouble. Is she the cause of your visit? Perhaps she has been caught up in some despicable cult that only meets at tea parties, or she’s been stitching horrific runes into her knitting? If that is the case then I can only assume it is because you’ve killed all the people she would usually invite.’

Amelia did not need to see the Inquisitor to recognise the wolfish smile that lay upon his face.

‘No, my friend. I was referring to your second wife.’

‘My second wife is long dead, as is the third!’

The governor shouted, dropping all pretence of decorum. He had likely taken the words as an insult; the services of a Rejuvenat Adept were ruinously expensive and even the governor’s prodigious budget wouldn’t stretch beyond treatment for a single person. Though the Governor would live for centuries, his lovers would not. Lysette was the governor’s fourth wife and was pushing ninety; within forty years she would likely be dead and succeeded by another noble lady, leaving behind children who would be outlived by their father. The governor’s marriages were political, and he instead sought comfort in the arms of an array of courtesans, who could be replaced without many political repercussions. As far as the governor was concerned, the Inquisitor had just insulted his wealth.

‘Indeed, but I was not referring to the Marquessa Cassandra. I speak of Sevilla Alvarez, who you married in secret within the temple of the Divine Blade on the night of the winter solstice two years ago. I also speak of her predecessor Yaiza Montez, who was killed by Alvarez in a blood duel, and thirty-eight other women.’

To his credit, the Governor was able to quickly disguise his shock as indignance.

‘How dare you throw around such baseless accusations without a shred of proof!’

‘Proof, sir? Dare, sir? It is time you dropped this ridiculous notion of your own importance. I am an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus, bound by sacred oath to seek out traitors wherever they are found. Under my authority you are no different to the base-born commoners who toil in your factories. Your Governorship is revoked, your assets are now seized and you are to surrender yourself to my custody.’

‘The fuck I will!’

The Governor struck first, sending a glittering beam of energy from one of his rings shooting into the Inquisitor’s exposed head, which burst into a bright light as the bolt impacted upon the shield generated by the Inquisitor’s Iron Halo. A second later his hand shattered with explosive force as it was struck by a lasbolt and the inquisitor’s retinue descended into chaos as arcane weaponry were turned upon the Household Guards. Amelia felt rather than saw the servant besides the great bed deactivate a limiter and gather psychic energy, forcing the very air around the Inquisitor’s retinue to ignite in warpflame. Instead of the expected inferno Amelia was stuck with a crippling sense of dread as the psychic energy was syphoned away from the man, flowing straight into the penitent witch who collapsed in an agonising seizure. As she tried to act, gathering her own psychic might, Amelia felt her own powers snatched away as fast as she could gather them. Instead she raised her laspistol and fired through the gap between two Sister of Battle, hitting the rogue psyker in the temple and vaporising his brain.

In mere moments, the stately chamber had descended from a place of quiet tranquillity into a violent bloodbath, with glittering laser beams, the spiralling trails of bolt shells and a kaleidoscope of more exotic ammunition filling the air. The Inquisitor and his crusaders stood at the heart of this firefight, cutting down the halberd armed guardsmen where they stood. Despite their advanced weaponry, the Inquisitor’s retinue were utterly exposed; their enemies were firing from behind doorways or from the mezzanine gallery whilst the servants of the throne were isolated with their backs to the great glass window. The battle would soon turn against them, and the Governor, even amidst his delirium, was confident of rescue.

Those hopes were dashed as the men on the mezzanine were cut down from above by volleys of hotshot lasfire. Suddenly the titanic window shattered into a rain of deadly shards as a squad of Stormtroopers descended into the room on grav-chutes, delicately angling their jets even whilst firing. These men in their utilitarian armour cut apart the finely dressed Guards with blocky hellguns that spat lasers at an incredible rate. Simultaneously and across the entire palace the same scene was playing out; lasers would burst unannounced through great windows, pouring into columns of men rushing to reinforce the governor, then the glass would be shattered and the stately halls tarnished by grey-armoured men whose features were wholly hidden behind vac-suits. The magnificent corridors became host to rushing gales as the air fought to escape into the lower pressure of the outside. In the harem, scantily clad women screamed and fled as these soldiers encroached upon their space before being cut down as they sought shelter behind the Household Guard. Lieutenant-Colonel Coriolanus, who had been amongst the first in the Battalion to breach the palace, now stood at the head of his adjutants before a burning table in the grand dining room where millennia of Governors had entertained the ancient nobility of Nova Iberia. This monument to order and opulence was now being systematically broken into a shattered wreck.